


The Way to a Man's Heart

by thefrogg



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Issues of nonsexual consent, M/M, Pining, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton doesn't want to find his soulmate.  He's been betrayed too many times; trust is too much to ask from him now.</p><p>Too bad his heart won't listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way to a Man's Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [james](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



By the time Nick Fury tracks Clint down in Iraq, his mark's long been hidden in a partial sleeve of tattoos, swirls of color and imagery that bleeds over his shoulder and down his chest; the section over his collarbone had hurt like a bitch, but it'd been worth it.

The ink is gorgeous, and screams _"Don't ask, don't look"_ to anyone with two brain cells to rub together. Finding Clint’s mark in it would be an exercise in futility; even if it meant something to the searcher - it always does - Clint’s not interested.

His unit doesn't care, knows he's not searching, even if the odds of finding his soulmate aren't good. No one's are, and there's no one Clint wants to be bonded to anyways.

Six months later, after a mission only turned into not-a-total-clusterfuck through judicious use of insubordination and flat out ignorance of his given orders, Clint uses his get-out-of-jail-free card and calls SHIELD.

There's three guys in medical, another handful back in barracks, all still alive thanks to Clint; he doesn't get to say goodbye, but the gratitude and amazement and respect on their faces had been enough to last him the hours in the brig.

~~~

SHIELD is different.

His ink doesn't mean _"Don't ask"_ here, it means take precautions: the medical staff wear gloves; he gets a sleeve-based wrap to spar in; his handlers always **always** telegraph on the few occasions he's injured, always tell him they won't touch his tattoos, and then don't touch.

It's almost enough to make Clint take out Fury's other eye. He just wanted to do some good with what's left of his life; he never asked for reason to trust again.

~~~

It's easier not to get attached with temporary handlers; Clint runs out of that kind of luck eighteen months in.

He blames it on himself, his own instincts, but can't suppress the feeling of dread when he gets a message to see Senior Agent Coulson for further orders.

Coulson's his favorite; he lets himself sigh and bang his forehead gently against the door to his quarters.

This is going to suck.

~~~

 _Favorite_ is quite possibly an understatement. Clint struggles to hide his attraction every day even as he acknowledges it, if only to himself.

Coulson's the only one he's willing to call _sir,_ because he's the only one Clint needs every scrap of distance from.

It gets worse later, after they're trapped in a safehouse until extraction, when Coulson--

~~~

Coulson has a mark. It's low over his hip, where a sidearm-in-holster would cover it.

A bland look answers Clint's grunt of surprise. "Oh, that?" Coulson shrugs. "I've had it for years, never met anyone who's actually fit."

There's no hint of awareness, no "I know it's you, I'm just waiting for you--"

Clint wants to scream at the unfairness of it.

~~~

Agent Coulson's mark is a slice of pizza.

_A slice of pizza._

Dripping cheese from the side, pepperoni slices shining with grease...it would mean nothing to most, and even Coulson doesn't know--

Pizza means warmth and family and full bellies, a father that's out of town or overnight on a job, a father who isn't there to hit him or Mom or Barney--

Pizza means home.

~~~

Having Phil - having _Coulson,_ Clint reminds himself, though he knows it's futile even in the privacy of his own mind - is enough. It has to be.

He never says anything, about Coulson's mark, about his own, but it doesn't seem to matter.

They fit together like two puzzle pieces, the trust between them unparalleled, and even Clint defying orders to bring in the Black Widow instead of terminating her--

~~~

Adding Natasha to their little partnership is a relief, if nothing else. She is someone Clint can talk to, someone who will keep his secrets, even from Ph--damnit, even from Phil.

They sleep together for a while, more friendship and pleasure and reassurance than anything else; Clint tells himself he isn't disappointed when Natasha puts an end to it. Natasha knows, knows about Phil, and even though it's _Natasha_ it's starting to feel cheap.

~~~

Clint's okay with losing his perch in New Mexico, with taking orders from Fury. If he's the one who goes down, at least it won't be Coulson, won't be _Phil--_

\--and then it's too late.

~~~

Getting food from paper basket to mouth is an effort at this point; chewing is more survival instinct than action, a desire not to die choking on post-battle celebratory shawarma.

The heavy footfalls are deliberate, recognizable even in the exhaustion here-and-now, and Clint manages to glance up over yet another unappetizing bite.

"Barton. With me." Fury doesn't spare a glance at the rest of the team, not even Natasha next to him; Fury's coat rustles pointedly as he pivots, stops in the doorway, eyebrow raised in a _"Well? Are you coming?"_

Whatever it is, it's important enough - alarming enough - to send yet another weak surge of adrenaline through Clint's overtaxed system, get him out of his chair and stumbling after.

~~~

Clint's only peripherally aware of Natasha a half-step behind, the rest of the team scrambling, Tony throwing a handful of bills on the table, calling out _thanks for the food, they'll be back again soon_ and then too-bright sunlight, and a transport halfway down the block.

He's numb with shock, exhausted from being marionette and then fighting and flying and more fighting, memories hazy and disjointed; he doesn't react when Natasha tries to talk, rests a hand on his shoulder (covered, always covered, mark hidden by ink and all), lets her press closer in an attempt at comfort she has never understood, not really.

~~~

The bustle of a hospital, overloaded with injured, crying, screaming, panicking people, doctors and nurses and announcements over the PA system is unmistakable, but all Clint can concentrate on is the leather coat in front of him.

The bickering behind him, Tony and Steve picking up on something he doesn't know, not yet, doesn't matter; neither does Natasha's losing her patience enough to tell them both to shut up.

He misses whatever threat she uses entirely.

~~~

"It's going to look bad," Fury says bluntly. Clint's swaying on his feet, Fury's hand still bracing his shoulder (off-shoulder, no tattoos, no risk--but there isn't anyways--), and the words barely register.

With him.

Behind him--

"It's going to look bad," he says again. "He will recover. We got him in time, he will live, he will recover, he will get back in the field with work and patience and perseverance." Fury turns from him, turns to the rest of the team. "Shut up, all of you."

"I. I don't. Nick?" It's too hard to think, too hard to understand.

"This is not your fault, Barton, I need you to know that. It's not your fault." Then Nick's moving again, down to the next hospital room.

There's more jostling behind him, a startled _"oof"_ of an elbow in someone's ribs, and then Clint can see through the door.

See machines and monitors, hear the steady beep. beep. beep.

His world upends itself.

~~~

There's yelling behind him, jostling, bodies moving, and Clint can't bring himself to care. Can't--

He doesn't know whether or not to be thankful that they hadn't--they hadn't...

He hadn't known. He wouldn't have been able to fight if he had, but he hadn't known--

Phil hadn't--

 _"Phil."_ His name spills unbidden from his lips, shocked, raw, painful, and everything stops.

Natasha turns, drags Steve with her by the wrist, moves Tony and Bruce away from the bed with a glance.

It's not too late, barely, not too late, not his fault, his fault this is--

His fingers won't work, claw at his tunic until Nick catches them gently, murmurs a gentle "Hold on" before unzipping, unbuckling the catches himself, taking the tunic and the undersleeve that follows.

Clint's tattoos all but glow with life, with color against the pallor of his skin, washed out with fear and guilt and exhaustion.

~~~

The short stretch of linoleum to the bed seem interminable, the bare skin of Phil's hand papery and delicate.

It's not, Clint knows, as he runs fingertips along Phil's wrist, goes to his knees with more of a controlled fall than any kind of grace.

He doesn't think about choice, about want or desire as he lifts Phil's hand from the sheet limp and unresponsive.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, I--" The rest comes out a broken sob, and Clint bows his head and shakes, leaning in so Phil's hand presses against the color standing out bright from his skin.

~~~

Warmth comes slowly, testament to how stressed and run down he is, just how very hurt Phil is, must be. The light that always accompanies these things - at least, in the movies it always lights up - is hidden by the insides of his own eyelids, but he can see a faint blur of light through them anyways.

The sounds of his own harsh sobbing and broken apologies is almost drowned out by the bitten-off exclamations and curses from those around him, and then the cold ache of sedation, so distant and yet so very familiar washes over him.

~~~

"There you are."

Phil's voice greets Clint when he wakes up, joyful and reverent and so very very welcome; it makes the muscle aches and gnawing hunger, the lingering effects of exhaustion and dehydration and fighting for control of his own body trivial by comparison.

It doesn't even matter that all he can see when he finally manages to pry his eyelids apart is the ceiling; apparently he'd been a movie-romance hero and fainted away at Phil's bedside.

"Phil?" he manages to croak out, past the thickness of his tongue, the parched sandpaper that calls itself his throat.

"Here, wait a moment." There's the sound of moving around, cloth against cloth, pouring water. “I’m not surprised you’re thirsty, you’ve been out almost three days.”

Then the bed is moving beneath him, stops in a half-reclined position, and there's a straw against his lower lip. He lets his eyes fall shut again, tips his head and sucks gratefully at the cup of water. "You--I don't--"

How can this be? There's no one else in the room, just him, and Phil, and a hospital room with its attendant smells of antiseptic and--Phil was on life support--

"You had no strength to moderate, Clint," and the words are weighted with concern, with--dare he say it-- "You couldn't take the injury, but you could take the stress and pain and everything else with it."

Pride. Gratitude. Not--

"I wanted it to be you," Phil says, setting the cup of water down, covering one of Clint's with his own. "I, I've loved you for so very long. I didn't--You never said--"

Phil's grip on his hand is almost painful, then goes lax and soothing, fingertips rubbing over squeezed knuckles in a soft caress. "You don't. You don't mind?" Clint's too scared to look, terrified to see disappointment on Phil's face, in his eyes, but then Phil's hand is gone the split second it takes to reach up, cup Clint's chin, and he opens his eyes anyways.

"Pizza, Clint? I never--I didn't know it meant anything to you, I tried--You weren't searching for your own, so I couldn't, not as your handler--"

Clint's shaking his head now, eyes burning. "Pizza is." He sniffles, swallows, looks down at their hands and tries again. "Mom always got pizza for us when Dad was gone overnight."

It says so much, and so little, and Clint's throat closes on the prospect of more, more explanation, more declaration - 

Phil catches him before he can turn away. "Pizza meant safety and enough to eat," he says, and this is the man Clint's loved, trusted since their very first op together, the man Clint loved before he knew about the mark, before everything--

"Pizza's _home,"_ Clint whispers.


End file.
